Save the Bird

I woke up this morning to the vivid recollection of an event, a trauma really, from my childhood. It was jarring. I didn’t know why my subconscious had decided to begin my day with such a disturbing memory.

I was eight years old and living in a middle-class suburb of Chicago. Our modest neighborhood was abutted, at its northern border, by a sprawling, once grand, estate. This large wooded property was owned by a family who, long before, had possessed almost all the land in the entire township. Over the years they gradually sold parcels of their property to developers who snatched it up to build countless single-family homes. In the meantime, the remaining estate—a mansion, guest house, greenhouse, and pool, on roughly ten acres—became dilapidated and overgrown as the younger generation moved away. It had become a clandestine playground for mischievous boys in the neighborhood who would scale the imposing brick wall to escape the watchful eyes of their parents.

And so I found myself there often. On this day in particular I was with three friends: Jimmy and Scott, nine, and John, ten. Scott’s parents’ house was directly adjacent to the aged estate and his yard held a large oak tree that provided the cover and elevation we needed to propel ourselves over the red brick barrier. That afternoon’s activities were typical—shooting out windows of the greenhouse with a BB gun (which somebody usually had in tow), peeing into the opaque pool water, and reveling in the general mayhem that’s born of walled-off impunity.

At some point near dusk, after we tired of our roguish antics, we regrouped at a clearing in the trees near the hop-point back to Scott’s yard. It was our closing ritual; we always met in this place, our own hallowed ground.

As we sauntered up to the clearing we noticed a tiny baby bird flailing about in the dirt. The fledgling, clearly panicked, was chirping wildly. He looked weak and injured. We knew, undoubtedly, that he had fallen from a nest high above in the oak tree. We sat there for a minute, unsure of what to do. Then somebody, I don’t recall who, said that we should “put him out of his misery.”

Justifications followed: “I’ve got to get home.” “I don’t have time to help bring him somewhere.” “It will hurt him more if we move him.” “The mother bird probably will reject him now anyway.” and most resonant, “He’ll be better off this way.”

I said nothing. I really wanted to help him. I think that we all wanted to help him, but instead of finding the right solution, we grasped the easiest, one that offered the comfort of collective responsibility and the relief of instant gratification. In retrospect, our actions actually turned out to be the most difficult to deal with in the long run.

Jimmy, who was physically the largest, picked a huge rock. With both hands, he hoisted it up above his head. I remember wanting to dive forward, to cradle the bird in my hands and protect it from danger, but my body wouldn’t move.

The rock struck with a loud thud that reverberated off the brick wall behind us. It rolled off to the side. The little bird was still alive. It lay there bloodied and mangled, still moving its wings ever so slightly. Instantly, all of us scrambled together to raise the rock up and release it once more. Again the rock rolled off. This time the bird was crushed and no longer moving. I wanted to cry but held back.

None of us could speak. I couldn’t stop staring at the ground, at him. Eventually I turned away and followed my friends back over the wall. We never spoke about that day again.

Sitting here now, I know why I was hit with the memory this morning. It occurred to me while thinking about what I did last night before bed. I was online, reading the “Final Statement” from the No on Prop 8 Campaign. It conceded that California, the place I call home, “said yes to bigotry, yes to discrimination, and yes to second-class status for same-sex couples.” It made me feel ashamed, like that scared eight-year-old boy.

Given the chance to do the right thing, to simply allow a bird to live its life, I failed. I stood by complicit, ignoring my instincts, and allowed my voice to be silenced by the voices of others.